Sunday, April 24, 2016

I took this picture last night at the neighborhood "spring fling" at a nearby park. You can see the smoke from a five-alarm fire in Gilbert in the background.

While we were at the party, there was a shootout in the parking lot in front of our house. Thank goodness we stayed late at the park! When we got home, there were police everywhere. We parked several houses down and had to be escorted past two lines of police tape to get to our house. What a crazy weird fun and scary night all in one.

Monday, April 11, 2016

I found a box of brownie mix in the cupboard yesterday afternoon. I held it up and asked Derek if he wanted to make brownies with me. I was in the mood for snacking. Apparently, he wasn't. He studied the picture on the box, crinkled up his nose and said no. So I put it aside ... not away, just aside, still within view ... and, later, when Derek was in the bath, I set the oven to preheat and pulled out a mixing bowl.

He was sitting on the couch in pajamas when the smell reached his nose.

"What is that?" he asked.

"What is what?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"That amazing smell," he said pulling me toward him. "Here, put your head right here. Do you smell it now?"

I told him about the brownies and he rushed over to peer into the open but still-hot oven, to stare at the brownies cooling on the rack.

I warned him not to touch anything.

"I know," he answered and clasped his hands behind his back -- and that's when his pajama-clad hip bumped against the oven door.

It wasn't a bad burn. It wasn't really a burn at all, just a brush with something hot through two layers of clothes, but it was enough to send my four-year-old running for an ice pack. Is it normal for four-year-olds to go through ice-pack phases? Because I feel like Derek is in the middle of a serious ice-pack-loving phase. Forget bandaids. They're so passé. Any bump, bruise or scrape now calls for the immediate application of ice.

Last night, he chose a hard Blue Ice cooler from the freezer. He grabbed it and ran into the living room to show me his "burn." As soon as he stopped to pull down his waistband to show me his burn, he dropped the heavy, hard plastic ice pack on his toe.

He screamed.

The burn and the brownies were forgotten. He couldn't believe I wasn't dropping everything to take him to the hospital immediately. He sat on the couch, wrapped in blankets with his bare foot propped on a cushion and pressed against the ice pack, predicting that he wouldn't be able to go to school the next day and arguing that it was definitely broken ... very swollen (what is swollen, anyway?) ... we need to buy an x-ray machine ... and why aren't doctors open when kids are going to hurt themselves at night? I sat next to him, trying to distract him with brownies (no luck!) until my poor boy begged to be carried to bed.